


"not to me. not if it's you."

by talkwordytome



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Common Cold, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Family Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Headaches & Migraines, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Nightmares, Sickfic, Sweet, Thunderstorms, sprained ankle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:02:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23438899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkwordytome/pseuds/talkwordytome
Summary: Does exactly what it says on the tin, lads. Enjoy!Title comes from that selection of dialogue we've all cried over fromAn Oresteia(translated by Anne Carson) because in this situation I simply cannot help but be a basic bitch.
Relationships: Zelda Spellman/Mary Wardwell, Zelda Spellman/Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith
Comments: 22
Kudos: 120





	1. cold

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a bit of self-indulgent silliness as I work on other longer, more serious projects. I don't plan on having any chapter exceed ~2,000 words, and already have ideas for all six. 
> 
> Is it crazy that I'm writing this much? Maybe! But like, where ELSE am I supposed to put all the energy that normally goes into teaching my 3rd graders? Anyway, it's nice to have a creative outlet.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Zelda Spellman catches a cold and makes for a VERY needy convalescent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look. I couldn't do a 5+1 hurt/comfort fic and NOT have a sickfic chapter, y'all. It's just my wheelhouse. It is who I am. Much like Ron Swanson demanding all the bacon and eggs you have, I do not simply want a LOT of sickfic; I want all the sickfic that exists forever and always amen.

Zelda glowers, sunk into the lapels of Hilda’s emergency sweater like some eldritch terror preparing to emerge from a centuries long slumber. She can’t stop falling into coughing fits so wracking that her eyes water, and she is personally offended by her own endless, repellant sniffling and nose-blowing. It’s barely 10:30 but Hilda has already brought her five cups of echinacea tea, and each one has been accompanied by increasingly less subtle hints that, perhaps, she _might_ consider going home.

“It’s allergies,” Zelda maintains, sneezing violently.

“It’s January,” Hilda retorts, gentle but insistent.

“Melvin, careless boy that he is, accidentally added goldenrod instead of yarrow to his healing potion during intermediate bubbling,” Zelda insists. “You know how terribly goldenrod makes me sneeze.”

Hilda raises her eyebrows. “And shiver?” she asks.

Zelda scowls. “It’s cold in here,” she says, pulling the sweater tighter around her shoulders. “There’s a draft.”

“Zelda,” Hilda says, patience exhausted, “I have all the fires burning as high as they can safely go. The Academy is a _furnace_. If it gets any warmer people are going to start getting indecent.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Zelda says, but then coughs and coughs until she has to cover her mouth with her handkerchief. 

“You were saying?” Hilda prompts after Zelda’s body has finished ridding itself of whatever semi-sentient gunk is clogging up her throat and lungs. She hopes Zelda hasn’t been visited by a plague demon; plague demons are always _dreadfully_ inconvenient.

“Fine,” Zelda says, sounding miserable. “I’ll go home.”

Hilda beams. “That’s my girl,” she says warmly, already bundling Zelda into her coat. “I will keep things here running like _clockwork_ , and I’ll be there before you know it to make you some of my special soup.”

“Chicken noodle?” Zelda sniffles, staring at Hilda with teary, baleful eyes. “And toast? Without the crusts?”

“Whatever you want,” Hilda promises, halfway-pushing Zelda to her office door. “Now, off you trot!”

Zelda’s nose is red and raw and her head feels light and swollen as a hot air balloon. Her entire body aches, even, somehow, her hair follicles. She hasn’t been this sick in centuries, perhaps ever. When she gets home she crawls into bed, shivering, and has confusing dreams about taking tea and biscuits with a very friendly spider monster that looks remarkably like Hilda.

Zelda wakes to a cool hand pressed to her fevered brow. She can practically hear her eyes creak as they slowly open. Mary is standing above her bed, and Zelda knows she must be dreaming—it’s a school day, and it can’t be later than midafternoon—but it’s such a _lovely_ dream that she doesn’t really mind. “Hello,” she says to the Mary apparition. “I think I may be dying.”

“I heard,” Mary says. “Hilda called me at Baxter High and said you have a spectacularly nasty cold.”

“Are you really here?” Zelda asks, scarcely daring to believe it.

“I’m really, really here,” Mary soothes, “and I even took the rest of the day off so I can look after you.”

“I can’t breathe,” Zelda says, blowing her nose loudly but ineffectually. “My head feels as though it’s been filled with...with cement. It’s revolting.”

“You sound like it, poor thing,” Mary says, running her hand through Zelda’s hair.

“No wonder mortals make so many awful decisions,” Zelda says, pinching the bridge of her nose, “if this is what your lives have been like for the past six millennia.”

Mary laughs. “We don’t _always_ have colds, sweets,” she says.

“Perhaps you do,” Zelda says through a drowsy, kittenish yawn, “and you’ve merely grown accustomed to it.” She sighs mournfully, curling closer towards where Mary sits at the edge of the bed. “I’m going to feel like this for the rest of my life.”

Mary presses a gentle kiss to the soft skin of Zelda’s cheek. “I’m going to bring you soup and a spot of tea,” she says, “and then I want you to get some more sleep. Sometimes when a person gets sick it’s their body’s way of telling them that they’re trying to do too much. Sound familiar?” There’s a mischievous glint in Mary’s eyes.

“Not even a little,” Zelda says, the corners of her mouth twitching.

Another long nap follows Zelda’s soup and tea, and when she wakes again it’s pouring rain. It’s dark in her room; the shades are drawn. She’s alone in bed, too, but there’s pale light seeping in from under her door. She feels anxious and displaced; how long has she been sleeping? And where did Mary go?

Zelda stands, bracing a hand on her bedside table as she waits out a wave of vertigo. Her sinuses throb insistently. She takes a blanket from her bed and wraps it around her shivering body, which she knows is decidedly undignified, though in this moment dignity is the least of her concerns. At the top of that particular list is _find Mary_ , followed _very_ closely by _obtain fresh handkerchief(s)_.

Sniffling, Zelda slowly makes her way down the stairs and towards the kitchen, where she can hear the rise and fall of familiar voices. Mary, Sabrina, and Ambrose are all seated at the table with mugs of coffee or tea, and Hilda is at the stove, stirring a merrily bubbling pot. They’re chattering away, and they don’t even notice she’s there until she bends forward with an enormous sneeze.

“Oh, love, you look _awful_ ,” Hilda says, which is the first thing Zelda hears once her ears have stopped ringing, followed by a medley of additional voices expressing similar sentiments. 

Several pairs of hands—one of them Mary’s, Zelda would know her hands anywhere—lead her over to the parlor sofa and immediately tuck the blanket more securely around her. She stares up at Mary with bleary eyes. “I don’t feel very well,” she croaks.

“Huh, I never would’ve guessed,” Mary teases, sitting next to Zelda and brushing a lock of sweat-damp hair from Zelda’s eyes, “because you look simply _fabulous_ , darling. Oh, Zelda,” she murmurs, frowning, “you’re burning up.”

Zelda makes a soft, sad noise of agreement, then drops over so Mary’s shoulder is supporting most of her weight. “How can I help, sweetheart?” Mary asks. She’s an ebullient, nurturing personality under normal circumstances, and something about her ordinarily unflappable love’s fever flushed face and stuffy voice hits a nerve that leaves her desperate to do anything she can to make Zelda feel better. 

Zelda cuddles deeper into the inviting warmth of Mary’s body. “This is plenty,” she sighs, then pauses, suddenly shy. “I know I’m not...at my most, ah, becoming right now—”

“Oh, stop that this instant,” Mary admonishes gently. “You’re as beautiful as ever, drippy nose and all.”

“I highly doubt it,” Zelda says wryly, then opens a single eye, “but thank you anyway.”

Zelda falls silent, soothed by the comforting sounds of her family going about the small rituals of their everyday lives. She is silent for so long that Mary thinks she’s fallen back asleep, and, in fact, nearly falls asleep herself. She’s floating in that strange, pleasant space between dreams and wakefulness when Zelda, in a voice so soft it’s hardly even a whisper, says, “Mary?”

“Yes, sweet?”

“I love you. Quite a bit, actually.”

Mary’s smile is a stamp, pressed flowers, against Zelda’s hot temple. “Oh, my dearest one,” she says, her words like sweet, warm honey, “I love you too.”


	2. drunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Zelda Spellman has her share of WILDLY unhealthy coping mechanisms, but luckily Mary Wardwell shan't be having any of that nonsense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for alcohol abuse and references to sexual abuse/assault/coercion

Mary almost doesn’t answer the phone until it occurs to her that nobody would be calling her at 10:30 p.m. on a Thursday unless it was some sort of emergency. “Yes, hello, what is it?” she says shortly, hoping that if she sounds irritated enough the conversation won’t take long.

“Uhm, hi, is this, uhm, Mary...Wardwell?” the nervous, uncertain voice on the other end belongs to a young woman.

“This is she,” Mary responds. “May I ask who’s calling at this _very_ late hour?”

“My name is Katie Cafferty?” the voice says, rising at the end in a question as if she is unsure of her own name. “I’m the, uhm, bartender? At The Sinking Ship right now? And I was just, like, wondering if you knew a Zelda Spellman? Maybe?”

Mary’s heart sinks. “Yes,” she says grimly, “I know her. What’s wrong?”

“She’s just, you know,” the girl swallows, “had, uhm, a _lot_ to drink? And I’m sort of worried about her, like, safety and stuff. I asked if she knew anyone who could get her and she said your name. I found you in the phonebook,” she adds as an unnecessary afterthought. 

Mary closes her eyes and sighs. _Zelda, what have you done_? “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” she says. “Tell her to stay put.”

“Yeah, I don’t think she’s going to be going anywhere,” the girl says awkwardly before hanging up.

The Sinking Ship is a dive bar on the outskirts of Greendale, primarily frequented by miners after their shifts. It’s certainly _not_ the sort of establishment Mary can imagine Zelda deigning to go, let alone get so inebriated she can’t make her own way home. 

It’s empty save a few tired men when Mary arrives, and it takes her a moment to realize that it’s Zelda slumped on a stool at the end of the counter, her head resting on her folded arms. Mary stalks furiously up to the young woman behind the bar; presumably the young woman who called Mary in the first place.

“Why didn’t you cut her off?” she hisses at the bartender, hands planted on her hips.

The young woman—Katie, her name was—looks barely old enough to have drinks, let alone serve them. Her brown eyes go very wide at Mary’s anger. “I only just started my shift a half hour before I called you, I swear,” she says nervously. “I don’t know who was serving her before I got here but her tab is huge; you might want to take her to the hospital, or something.”

Mary’s heart immediately softens at the girl’s earnestness. “No,” she sighs, “she has...a very strong constitution. I’ll take her home and fix her up there.”

Mary closes out the tab (which comes out to nearly $200) and gently shakes Zelda’s shoulder. “Zelda?” she whispers. “I’m here to take you home.”

Zelda lolls her face up to look at Mary. It’s red and splotchy, and Mary can’t tell if it’s from drinking or crying or both. “You came,” she says with a rather indelicate hiccup. 

“Of course I came,” Mary says, hoping she sounds more patient than she feels. “I’m going to help you to my car.”

“Don’t want your help,” Zelda slurs and moves to stand up, though she misjudges the height of her stool and stumbles gracelessly onto the floor.

“Well, unfortunately Zelds, I think you may need it,” Mary says, carefully holding Zelda beneath her arms and guiding her to stand. “Let’s go, come on.”

The first few minutes of the drive home are spent in tense silence, until suddenly in the passenger seat Zelda says, with a note of urgency in her raspy voice, “Pull over.”

“Zelda, we’re barely five minutes from your house, can’t this—”

“ _Now_ ,” Zelda says, and when Mary finally looks over at her she realizes that Zelda’s face has turned a sickly shade of greenish pale. _Oh_. 

She stops the car by the roadside, just in time for Zelda to open her door, lean out, and throw up what is—presumably—most of what she just finished drinking.

“Don’t look at me,” she orders between dry heaves, determinedly proud even in her abject misery. 

“Zelda—”

“ _Don’t_.”

Zelda is a little steadier by the time they get back to the Spellman house, enough that she’s able to walk to the front door with only minimal assistance from Mary. “You can take a nice long bath,” Mary says, unlocking the door for Zelda, “and then I think at this point the best thing for you would be sleep.”

The door shuts with a _click_ behind them. Zelda stares at Mary with unfocused, desperate eyes. “I can think,” she says throatily, pressing her body against Mary’s, “of something I need _much_ more than sleep.”

She starts trailing feverish, messy kisses down Mary’s neck. There’s a strange and awful sort of hunger in the way that she does it; there’s none of her usual tender sweetness. She smells like vodka and bourbon; sweat and cigarette smoke. Mary gently pushes her away.

“Zelda,” Mary says carefully, “much as I adore kissing you, I don’t think I’d feel good about doing it with you when you’re this—”

“When I’m ‘this’ what?” Zelda snaps. “Drunk?”

“Well,” Mary says, “yes, Zelda. Not because I...judge you for it, but because I can’t stomach the idea of having sex with someone who probably won’t remember it in the morning. Especially not the person I love most in the world,” she adds softly.

Zelda steps back quickly, as though she’s been burned. “Fine,” she says flatly. “I’m going to take a bath. You may go, Mary. I shall talk to you tomorrow.”

But Mary does not leave. What she does instead is give Zelda time. She wipes down the kitchen counters. She washes the dishes that are in the sink. She sweeps. She tidies. She boils a kettle full of water for tea; in the pantry she finds a vial full of cloudy liquid labeled “for icky tummies” in Hilda’s neat, precise hand. She finds a box of saltines and arranges some on a plate. Mostly, she waits. And she waits. She is not in a rush. 

When Mary finally goes to the bathroom the tub is full but Zelda is not in it; the water has grown cold and Zelda is crying. Sniffling into her shirtsleeve on the floor. She looks up at Mary pathetically, mouth trembling. 

“Here,” Mary joins her on the tile and gives her a little cup full of the nausea draught. “Drink this.”

Zelda sniffs thickly and swallows the medicine, wincing slightly at the taste. “Now this,” Mary instructs, handing Zelda the tea.

“I thought you left,” Zelda says after taking a sip. 

“Never in a million years,” Mary says, then hesitates. “Do you want to...talk about it?”

Zelda’s chin quivers. “This is a difficult week,” she says, new tears dripping down her cheeks.

Mary places a hand on Zelda’s shoulders, and Zelda does not pull away. “Why is it difficult, sweets?” Mary asks softly, so softly.

“It’s--it was the date of our...our honeymoon,” Zelda whispers haltingly, alcohol loosening the words that she usually keeps so tightly locked away. “Mine and...Faustus’s. He...when he had me under the...the Caligari spell we had--he made me do...awful things. I could...could see myself doing them and saying yes to them but it--it wasn’t me. And I can still smell him, and feel his...his hands in my hair and on my...my neck, and whenever I try to sleep I can see the way the ceiling looked while I lay on my back and he...and he--” 

She starts crying too hard to continue. Mary takes Zelda in her arms and rubs her back, letting her own tears mingle with Zelda’s. “I just want it to be over,” Zelda sobs, and Mary holds her impossibly tighter.

“I know,” Mary says, kissing Zelda’s temple. “I want that for you, too.”

It takes a bit of time, but Zelda’s sobs eventually slow to sniffles. “I didn’t intend to snap at you earlier,” she says, picking at a loose thread on the bathmat and refusing to meet Mary’s eyes, “and I’m especially sorry about the," she waves a vague hand, "everything else.”

“Sweetheart,” Mary says, pushing a soft, reddish lovelock behind Zelda’s ear, “you don’t need to apologize for this.” She smiles sadly. “If anyone understands trauma reactions it’s me.”

Zelda blinks, then considers Mary with an inscrutable expression on her face. She is weighing something, though what Mary is not sure. Suddenly, she leans forward and plants a gentle kiss on Mary’s lips. She sits back, her eyes serious and bright. 

“That’s enough for now,” she says firmly. 

Mary tenderly cups Zelda’s cheek in her palm. “We’ll go as slow as you need to,” she promises. She thinks, _you are more than worth the wait_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that it's maybe slightly OOC for Zelda to so transparently work through a trauma? But also like...WHY is that OOC, you know? I think a lot about how women, particularly women in sci-fi and fantasy, get put through these horrible awful things and the shows are just sort of like, "lol they're probably fine, right?" And it's like, but are they??? Are they REALLY???


	3. sprained ankle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Zelda Spellman's impractical shoes seek their revenge.

“You know, I’ve heard they always spike the punch at these things.”

Mary’s breath is warm and sweet and tickling against Zelda’s ear. “Oh, do not tease me about alcohol right now,” Zelda says. “The only thing that’s making this event remotely bearable is the snifter of bourbon that’s waiting for me at home.”

The Baxter High gymnasium is a seething, throbbing mass of hormones and cheap cologne and sweat. The youngest girls mingle in tight groups, giggling and jumping about in bright, flouncy dresses. Many of the older students are paired off--some as boy and girl, but not all--and dance pressed together, slow and serious, no matter the beat of the song that’s playing. Under the dim lights the gymnasium takes on an ethereal, almost romantic quality, and despite her complaints Zelda can’t truly bring herself to hate being there. Really, she can’t bring herself to hate anything she does when it’s done with Mary.

“Thank you for agreeing to chaperone tonight, Zelds,” Mary says, taking a sip of the regrettably not spiked punch. “I know this isn’t your ideal way to spend a Friday night.”

“Mmm,” Zelda agrees, smirking, “though I do recall someone promising to, oh, how did she phrase it? ‘Make it worth my while’?” 

“I also remember that agreement being made, yes,” Mary says, grinning impishly. “But in the meantime,” she extends a hand with a gallant bow, “may I have this dance?”

Zelda rolls her eyes and unsuccessfully fights back a smile. “I suppose,” she says, “since you asked like such a proper gentleman.” She takes Mary’s hand and allows her Mary to spin her out towards the center of the gymnasium. 

Perhaps it is the spinning, or perhaps it is the slick wood floor, or perhaps it is that Zelda is simply so besotted that she’s not paying attention, but suddenly Zelda Spellman finds herself turning her left ankle and falling with a very ungraceful _thunk_.

“Zelda!” Mary gasps. “Love, are you alright?”

Zelda waves her off. “Fine,” she says, “merely a badly sprained dignity.” Though the hiss of pain that escapes her mouth when she moves to right herself seems to indicate that there is another sprain indeed.

“Come here,” Mary says, “lean on me, and I’ll help you over to a chair.” 

Zelda makes a face like she’s intending to refuse, but when she tries to put weight on her injured ankle she turns very pale and accepts Mary’s offer without any additional fuss.

“This might not be a great time to say this—” Mary says as they walk.

“Then might I recommend restraining yourself from continuing?” Zelda interrupts archly.

“—but this probably would not have happened if you’d been wearing more sensible shoes.”

“These are _couture_ ,” Zelda sniffs, eyeing the offending leather stilettos. “They complete the entire ensemble, Mary.” 

“Couture from _when_?” Mary asks as she gets Zelda seated.

“1927—does it _matter_?”

“I suppose it doesn’t,” Mary says, easing the left shoe off Zelda’s foot. Even in the dark gymnasium she can tell it’s a bad sprain; bruises are already blooming blue and purple, and the ankle is beginning to swell around its joint.

“We need to get you home,” Mary murmurs, “and possibly even to a doctor.”

“ _No_ doctor,” Zelda instructs sharply. “And home would be lovely, but are you allowed to leave?”

Mary bites her lip and scans the exits for possible obstacles. “Probably not,” she admits, then smiles, “but what they don’t know can’t hurt them, right?”

“Mary Margaret Wardwell!” Zelda says, hand over her heart in a display of faux-outrage. “You could not _possibly_ be suggesting that we _break_ a _rule_?! Never would I have thought you capable of such roguish, degenerate behavior. I’ve taught you well, I see.”

“Oh shut up,” Mary says easily. “I’d break any rule in the world if it meant helping you.”

“My hero,” Zelda says drolly. 

They hobble towards the front doors, just barely managing to escape the notice of an exceptionally busybodyish 11th grade English teacher. “She is just _dreadful_ ,” Mary whispers to Zelda, who giggles in the way that only Mary can make her giggle. “She asks incessant questions during staff meetings simply to hear her own simpering voice. I heard that, a few years ago, a group of students found her in a _very_ compromising position with one of the gym teachers.”

They arrive back at the Spellman house and Mary gets Zelda situated on the sofa with an ice pack. Zelda, a coy smile playing on her lips, tells Mary where she keeps a small stash of heavy duty painkillers, leftover from Sabrina’s wisdom teeth removal. She obtains the pills, plus a stack of pillows so Zelda can elevate her ankle and two glasses full of dark amber liquid.

“I know you’re technically not supposed to mix alcohol and narcotics--” Mary begins, but Zelda interrupts her.

“Yes, yes, thank you very much for the surgeon general’s warning, Dr. Wardwell, your concern is noted. Now, if you please,” Zelda holds out her hand expectantly, then swallows the pill she’s given with a generous gulp of bourbon. 

Zelda is typically not a lightweight, though the two substances combined do as promised, leaving her tired and more than a little loopy. They watch _Arsenic and Old Lace_ curled up on the sofa, Zelda’s head in Mary’s lap so Mary can play with her hair. “He’s so handsome,” Mary sighs. “Cary Grant, I mean.”

“He’s awful in bed,” Zelda says, drowsy, eyes hardly half-open. 

Mary gapes at her. “You had _sex_ ,” the word ‘sex’ is whispered, as though it’s too naughty to say at full volume, “with _Cary Grant_?”

Zelda snorts. “Hardly,” she says. “He finished in under fifteen minutes and I had to fake a _most_ theatrical orgasm. You’re much better than he was,” Zelda says, patting Mary fondly on her cheek.

Mary’s entire body flushes pleasurably. “Good to know,” she says faintly.

Zelda yawns hugely and turns over onto her side. “My ankle doesn’t hurt so terribly anymore,” she says.

“I imagine nothing much at all hurts after a dose of Vicodin and two snifters of bourbon,” Mary says dryly.

“You’ll have to carry me to my bed,” Zelda mumbles, sounding no more than 2% awake, “like I’m a princess.”

Mary laughs. “I think I’m perfectly content to stay right where I am,” she says.

But Zelda is already snoring gently. “Good night, Zelds,” Mary whispers, pressing a kiss to Zelda’s soft palm.

In her sleep, Zelda smiles.


	4. thunderstorm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Zelda Spellman is just a _wee_ bit of a chicken when the weather gets nasty.

“Zelda?”

“Yes? What?”

Mary blinks at Zelda’s sharp tone. “Zelds,” she says carefully, “are you alright?”

“Fine,” Zelda says shortly. “Why do you ask?”

“You’ve just been sort of...tense, all afternoon,” Mary says.

“In what way?” Zelda asks testily.

“Well,” Mary says, “that’s your fifth cigarette in two hours, which is a lot for you, and you keep looking out the window like you’re expecting to see someone there.”

“Perhaps if you were less of a busybody, Mary, you wouldn’t take notice of my habits,” Zelda snaps. “I am perfectly fine. There’s no call for such fussing.”

Mary is attempting to formulate a response that doesn’t betray precisely how hurt she is by Zelda’s short temper when a flash of lightning interrupts her thoughts. A sharp peal of thunder follows closely on the lightning’s heels, and Zelda jumps slightly in her seat, as though she’s been shocked. She whips around so she’s staring out the window again, where rain has been lashing for the better part of the afternoon. _Oh_. 

“Zelda,” Mary says, with infinitely more patience than she had moments before, “are you afraid of the storm?”

Zelda’s eyes flash dangerously at this query, not totally unlike--Mary thinks--the lightning did. “How dare you,” she says. “Scared of a little weather. What an _absurd_ question. I’m not a child, Mary.”

“Are you sure?” Mary prods gently. “You seem a bit...edgy.”

“Am I _sure_?” Zelda repeats the question. “Of course I am. For Satan’s sake, why would I waste my time--”

What Zelda would or would not waste her time doing, though, remains a mystery. Just as she is about to finish her sentence there is another bolt of lightning, the thunder even closer than the one before, and the lights in the Spellman house flicker...flicker...flicker, and go out. It’s only midafternoon but the parlor is sent into thick, heavy darkness; outside, clouds roil and the wind whips fat raindrops rat-a-tat-tatting onto the roof.

“Bloody _hell_ ,” echoes Hilda’s voice from somewhere in the kitchen. “I was right in the middle-- _Sabrina_! Can you get us some flashlights, darling girl? They’re on the bottom shelf of the linen closet.”

“On it, Auntie!”

“Well, so much for our movie--Zelds?” Mary turns to the chair Zelda had been sitting in only moments before, but Zelda is gone, slipped silently out the room in the power outage chaos.

Mary frowns, a bit confused but not worried, not yet; there are only so many places Zelda could’ve gone, and she would’ve heard the front door open if Zelda had--for whatever strange, inscrutable Zelda reason--decided to leave. She blinks as her eyes adjust themselves to the dim light, feeling her way slowly to the kitchen. “Hilda?” she says.

“Right here, love!”

“Is Zelda in here with you?” Mary asks.

“No, dear,” Hilda says, distracted, as she searches for something in the pantry, “I thought she was in the parlor with you?”

“She was,” Mary confirms, “but she must’ve left right when the lights blinked off, I think, because now she’s gone and I don’t know where she’d be.”

Hilda laughs softly and fondly. “Ah, Zelds,” she says. “Check the downstairs powder room, Mary, she’s terribly frightened of thunderstorms--not that she’ll ever admit it--and that’s always where she hunkered down during them when we were girls.”

Mary smiles. _Knew it_.

“Zelda, sweet?” Mary says, knocking on the bathroom door. “It’s me; are you in there? Can I come in?”

A bit of sniffling and snuffling on the other side of the wall. Then: “Go away,” which is muffled but still decidedly teary. Mary frowns.

“Please, Zelda?” she wheedles, then takes a moment to consider just how lovingly manipulative she wants to be. She settles on _a lot to very_. “I’m worried about you; you don’t want me to be worried, do you?”

Mary counts the seconds-- _one, two, three, four, five, six_ \--until she hears the soft pop that accompanies someone unlocking the door. Mary opens it--slowly, wary of startling Zelda--until she sees Zelda sitting in a huddle on the floor, her knees drawn up to her chest. Her green eyes are wide and luminous--pretty emeralds shining through the gloom--and Mary can just make out the presence of tear tracks on her cheeks. Her breath is decidedly shallow and quick.

“Oh, Zelda,” Mary says softly, taking in the sight before her.

Zelda wipes her eyes roughly on her forearm. “Please just,” she mumbles, looking anywhere but at Mary, “leave me alone.”

Mary sits down next to Zelda and mirrors her knees-up position. “Now why,” she says, “would I go and do a silly thing like that?”

Zelda gives her A Look. “Because this is utterly humiliating, Mary,” she says. “A grown witch of nearly 300 years cowering in her powder room because of a little lightning.”

Mary carefully places her own hand on top of Zelda’s and is encouraged when Zelda doesn’t pull away. “We can’t always help what scares us, you know,” Mary says, then smiles a little. “Not even the great and powerful Zelda Spellman.”

Zelda sniffs. “If that is a reference to the terrible Oz movie Hilda and Sabrina are so fond of, I refuse to acknowledge it,” she says, before another clap of thunder has her burying her face in Mary’s neck.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Mary whispers. 

Zelda, face still pressed in the soft, fragrant crook between Mary’s jaw and collarbone, breathes a sigh. “I--would you mind,” she says, sounding uncharacteristically shy, “simply staying with me, the way you are now?”

Mary kisses Zelda’s cheek and smiles. “Zelda,” she says, “there is nothing in this world I would enjoy more.”


	5. nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Zelda has a bad dream, but Mary is there to hold her through it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for graphic descriptions of sexual assualt!

_First: the sensation of floating, suspended in a thick, viscous liquid. Limbs too heavy. Foggy brain. She doesn’t want this, doesn’t want to succumb, but she is sleepy, so sleepy. Let go, her brain says, won’t it be so nice to simply let go? Then: Big, rough hands on her shoulders, pushing her down onto the bed, pinning her there. Fingers digging into the tender flesh of her arms. A hand wraps around her neck. Tight, then tighter even still. Someone on top of her, he is on top of her, his hot, panting, sour breath mingling with her own. Something is stuffed into her mouth. A pair of underwear. Hers. Wrists are bound. Can’t move, can’t scream, can’t hardly breathe--_

“Zelda? Zelda!”

Zelda abruptly sits upright, though her eyes remain far away and wild. Her heart is racing; a lancing pain accompanies each frantic beat. She can’t catch her breath, she’s going to suffocate, her throat is closing up. She tries to count to ten, because that’s what Hilda taught her, that’s what always works. But her chest is too tight and she’s wheezing helplessly and she can’t free herself from the fog of the dream and she gets stuck on _three, three, three_.

Someone’s hands are on her shoulders now. A fresh surge of panic shoots through her, and bile rises into her throat-- _was it not a dream? Has he managed to find her, even now?_ \--and she moves to yank herself away, but then the same voice that woke her says: “Zelda, sweetheart, it’s Mary. It’s only me. I’m here, and so are you, and we’re both safe. We’re safe, and I love you. I promise.”

“Mary…?” is all Zelda can manage, her voice too raspy with sleep and bad dreams. Mary has not let go of her shoulders; she is an anchor, mooring Zelda in the here-world where she belongs, protecting her from all the phantoms that may try and pull her back.

Mary spends the next few minutes talking to Zelda, and though Zelda doesn’t consciously register most of what she says, she’s unspeakably grateful for the cool lilt of Mary’s voice, the warm hands clasping her own, the sheer nearness of her. As long as she is with Mary she is safe, even as cruel, whispery voices wail from deep inside her mind and warn her that she is not. In this moment, here with Mary, she is safe. And for Zelda that counts for something. It counts for a lot. 

Zelda can feel herself slowly returning from whatever dark place she’d been stolen away to. She has to start the counting over a few more times but she eventually arrives at ten. Her heart is still beating faster than she’d like, but it’s not going at a hummingbird’s rate anymore. Her breaths are shaky, but the wheeze gradually diminishes. She dimly realizes that she’s drenched in sweat and shivering almost uncontrollably; her teeth are chattering. Mary’s hands are tugging gently at her hands, and it takes Zelda a moment to figure out why: she’d hand them clenched into fists so tight that there are dark grooves left on her palms from the dig of her fingernails.

“Darling,” Mary says, and her voice is so warm and kind that some internal spring releases in Zelda and she begins to weep: not soft tears, but great, shaking sobs that come crashing up upon each other like waves. She would normally be embarrassed but in this moment it is such a heady relief to let go of it all, if only briefly.

Mary puts a sturdy, comforting arm around Zelda’s shoulder and holds her tight. “Hey, hey,” she whispers, “it’s okay, you’re okay.”

“I can’t--I don’t...I don’t know--I...I...I,” Zelda chokes out, but Mary shushes her.

“Don’t try to talk,” she murmurs. “You’re not a bit well, are you?” It’s such an understatement that Zelda bubbles out a hysterical laugh that immediately transforms into another sob.

Zelda’s crying slows to small, teary sniffles. Her nose is running, so Mary hands her a bouquet of tissues, and Zelda--too exhausted to be demure--blows her nose, hard, and then emits a painfully pathetic sounding whimper. It makes Mary’s heart hurt to watch.

Zelda lowers the tissues and stares at Mary blearily. Mary pulls Zelda in closer, so her head is nestled between head and jaw. Mary must know that it’s her favorite place, her safe place, and that thought is enough to nearly set Zelda off crying all over again. “That must’ve been some nightmare,” Mary says softly.

“Mmm,” Zelda says. “I have them often. But one never does quite get used to it.”

“No,” Mary says. “I don’t suppose one would.”

They lie side by side, Zelda matching the rhythm of her own breath to Mary’s. The bed is an island, and they are out in the middle of a calm sea, just the two of them. No one can touch them here. “Do you want to talk about it?” Mary asks.

Zelda shakes her head. “Not right now,” she says, “can you just...hold me, Mary? Until I fall back asleep?”

Mary kisses Zelda on her forehead, her eyelids, and the tip of her nose. “I’ll hold you as long as you need, Zelda,” she whispers.

_I’ll hold you forever, if you’ll only let me_.


	6. migraine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it's Mary's turn to receive some softness & tenderness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty short, but there wasn't really much I could do to make it longer, and I feel like it accomplishes what I envisioned with the words that there.
> 
> This chapter brings this fic to its end! I'm sorry it took me a little while to update; I have a few different WIPs currently and I'm teaching from home.

The world is melting and she is melting along with it.

Not a pleasant melting, not the sort of melting that sex always felt like, as though she were slipping into a warm bath until she became the warm bath. This melting is like burning candle wax dripping down the inside of her skull, like lava and magma cascading down the side of a mountain, like flesh sloughing off bones in a fire. The world loses its angles and edges; it is a blurred mass of loud colors, all constantly shifting and oozing until she fears she might be sick all over herself. Every sound, no matter how small, reverberates angrily down the column of her spine. 

She staggers up the front walkway; she does not remember driving to the Spellmans and supposes she should be grateful she made it without crashing the car. She knocks on the front door, wincing when the noise rattles and echoes in her head like so many spilled pennies. 

“--ary?”

A ringing buzz in Mary’s ears prevents her from hearing all the syllables of her own name. The world is spinning too fast on its axis and gravity, once so dependable, is failing her. She opens her mouth to speak but manages only a pained whimper.

“--you inside,” Mary hears, and Zelda’s arms go carefully around her. Black specters blot out the edges of her vision and she is eternally grateful for Zelda’s certain and steadying grip.

“--wrong, Mary?” Zelda is taking her upstairs, only the stairs are funhouse stairs, twisting and shifting and changing with every step she takes.

“Migraine,” Mary grits out as she focuses simply on putting one foot in front of the other.

“--into bed, darling, I’m so sorry--”

Careful hands ease her onto the bed, and lying down is an instant, if marginal, improvement. Her entire body feels as though it's on fire; every touch, even gentle ones, trigger aching shockwaves across the contours of her skin. Zelda closes the curtains and turns off all the lights. Mary can feel the bed shift as Zelda sits down next to her. She runs sweet hands across the feverish expanse of Mary’s brow and Mary almost moans with the relief it brings her.

“ _Hurts_ ,” Mary whispers, and the shimmery outline that is Zelda shushes her with a delicate finger graced over Mary’s lips.

“Don’t talk,” Zelda murmurs, “it’ll only make your head hurt worse.” She kisses Mary--gently, gently--on her clammy temple. “I’m going to get a few things to help you, alright? I promise I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Mary falls into a restless, uncomfortable doze as she waits for Zelda to return. It is a queer thing, she thinks, to be motion sick when your body is not in motion. It feels as though her brain has grown too swollen to fit where it’s supposed to belong. 

“Drink this,” Zelda says, after what might have been five minutes or five hundred hours, or both, or neither. Zelda holds a mug to Mary’s mouth, and Mary sips careful mouthfuls of peppermint tea. 

Zelda’s hands are dry and miraculously cool. They feel the way snow looks. “Good girl,” Zelda whispers once Mary has taken a few sips. 

Mary falls back against the pillows, strength already mostly exhausted. Zelda drapes a damp washcloth that smells of rosemary and lavender and honeysuckle over Mary’s eyes. She hums a quick calming spell, and Mary can pinpoint the precise moment all the tension begins to leach itself from her body. She is sinking into the mattress, but this time it is a pleasurable sinking, all honeyed, heavy limbs; pastel dreams tugging at the edge of her consciousness. 

“Do you need anything else, sweet?” Zelda asks.

“Stay?” Mary says, eyes closed, their lids weighted down with faintly delirious exhaustion. She thinks, perhaps, there was more than just peppermint in her tea. She thinks, perhaps, that she is glad for it.

Zelda carefully eases herself under the sheets and curls her body like a protective shell around Mary’s body. She is an ocean made of sage and jasmine and amber and faint cigarette smoke. 

“My bones are sore,” Mary murmurs. 

“Rest,” Zelda says. “I’ll be here when you wake up again.”

She starts to say something else, but Mary misses it. She is dizzy, dizzy, a comet spinning into sleep.


End file.
